"Inure thyself to what thou art like to be."
Anne had not been able to resist. She had felt the chill the moment she stepped into the chapel; it poured out of a secret door in the wall that had been left just barely ajar. As a means of granting her daughter permission to solve a household crisis in the middle of their visit, Anne had declared she would be happy to spend a little time in prayer. Against the mystery of a secret door, prayers took second place.
Confirming that the chill was sweeping up from a crypt was a disappointment. A secret door in a novel, if it did not open into a chamber ready for a lovers' tryst, almost always led into a crypt. There is truth in literature, I suppose. But Anne had to grant that it was a superior example. The Fitzwilliam crypt was a solemn, boring place. It was almost unworthy of the spit she had bestowed upon it the one time she visited to gloat over her father's tomb. As far as crypts went, this one was stunning. Even when they are dead, the Capulets must have their dramatics.
Will my children lie here, too?
